Porcelain
by angelicdamnation
Summary: "Erik gave a forlorn smile, thinking of how natural she looked in a diva's dressing room. Alas, it was not permanent. Not yet." The events of Phantom, all from Erik's point of view. Leroux and ALW. T just to be safe.
1. A Gondola and a Ghost

_Porcelain_

**A/n: Alright, I have decided to scrap my other story, as it was going nowhere, and have instead brought you this. It is basically the events of Phantom shown from Erik's POV, in a mixture of Leroux and ALW. I am aware that there are a good many of these types of stories on this site, however, I am confident that mine is good enough to be enjoyed. Enormous shout-out to 'charleygirl', 'Eriksangelofmusic4ever', 'Louise-Anne', and 'GuitarGirl97' for being the most amazing and inspiring authors on the web.**

**Disclaimer:** **I regret to inform you that I do not own any form or variation of PotO, except what is in this story. Now, without further ado…**

Chapter 1; A Ghost and a Gondola

"Oh, marvelous."

Erik knew that it was going to be a long day the second he dared walk out his front door. He had awoken early and was restless; in need of a task and some energy. He had planned to retrieve some coffee beans from the Opera house's kitchen, as everyone would still be asleep, but had not gone a meter when his slipper clad feet touched water.

With a sigh of annoyance, Erik surveyed his surroundings in the light of the lantern that he held. Lake Averne had risen greatly from the recent fall rain storms, and his gondola was nowhere to be found. Forgetting all thoughts of coffee, he groaned inwardly and went to his private chamber to remove his Oriental robes and redress in loose-fitting cotton trousers splattered with ink. He removed his ever-present white half-mask (much to his chagrin), and walked slowly towards the quietly swirling lake. Pausing ever so slightly at the bank of the dark water for another inward groan, Erik dove in.

Shock was his first feeling, as the water was around forty four degrees, and pain was Erik's second, as the frigid liquid swirled around his tortured face and form. All of the scars and marks he had received in Persia and at the hands of the gypsies burned like fire. He resurfaced, and began to tread water, hoping the pain would fade. Ever so slowly, he began to adjust to the icy temperature, and was able to move around freely.

He swam through a few of his passages with ease, as the knowledge of how to stay afloat is necessary when you live near a sizeable body of water, and after what seemed like an eternity (closer to twenty minutes) located a half-submerged pillow. After giving a third inward groan (he made a mental note to find some other way to express his displeasure), Erik plunged under the murky water and opened his amber eyes. He kicked up the surface and swore angrily. His gondola was in two pieces, obviously having been smashed against the rocky walls of the passage by the strange currents that seem to form from the combination of storms and a full moon. He cursed his obsession with _Don Juan Triumphant_ (and a certain curly brunette), which distracted him constantly, most recently from properly tying the small craft to its dock. Erik heaved himself from the cold water onto a small ledge that jutted from the stone and began to think.

There were two ways to solve his dilemma; first, he could leave the wreckage in the passage and wait for another opportunity to secure a new boat, or two, he could heave the hewn frame back to his house by the lake and attempt to repair the damage. Both options could leave him without a way to navigate the waterways for a very long time. However Erik, being no stranger to hard work, chose the second option and slithered back into the swirling liquid.

It took a little over thirty minutes to haul the waterlogged cushions and fragmented watercraft to the bank of the lake (the water had thankfully retreated), a short distance from his front door. . By then the mighty Phantom was shivering and glad of the dying embers of his fire (which he hurriedly stoked to a crackling flame). He sat the cushions a short distance from the fire, wrapped himself in a large towel after placing the cool porcelain mask on his mangled visage, and began to mentally assess the damage to his graceful little vessel.

The broken portion could be reinforced with some lightweight steel, joining the two pieces, and some caulking would keep away the leaks. The black velvet lining however, could not be salvaged. Luckily for Erik however, the seamstresses for the Opera had a supply of silver velvet, and with a few binding agents and some upholstry tacks the lining would be relatively simple to replace.

On Erik's way to retrieve the necessary tools and materials to fix his gondola (not to mention some dry clothes), he happened to glance at his mantelpiece clock. He never needed much sleep, and woke relatively early, so he was not surprised to find it was only half past five. This left plenty of time before Christine was due for her vocal warm-up. Deciding to fix the gondola now and find the velvet later he flung the small vessel onto the rocks which skirted the edge of the lake and set to work.

It took longer than he expected, at a good four hours, and he still needed a few things before the gondola could be fully repaired. So he chose to leave the gondola and retrieve what he needed from the opera now, before the small craft robbed him of his patience and sanity. Quickly donning his black suit, he took a few francs from a box he had on the mantel, checked the pillows to see if they were dry (they were not), and marched towards a short tunnel concealed in his living room wall, snatching his long black cloak and fedora as he went. The tunnel led to a stone corridor which branched out into a labyrinth of passages leading all through the Populaire. Erik selected an offhand route and strode into the darkness.

o0o0o0o

A sizable panel of the seamstress workshop's wall opened, and a rather agitated and mildly dusty Opera Ghost stepped out into the hazy light cast from an overhead gas lamp. Muttering to himself about tidying his seldom used path to the workshops, Erik began searching for the roll of velvet. His keen eyes sought it out quickly and he was just about to spirit away the heavy fabric (leaving the francs in its place) when the door opened and two chattering women walked into the dim room. Quickly sliding into shadow, Erik tilted his head to obscure the bone white mask and folded his cloak over his crisp white dress shirt. The shortest woman raised her voice for emphasis:

"…and when Claude proposed she had the _nerve_-don't forget the velvet for the elephant," she motioned in the general direction of the roll and continued talking, "-she had the _nerve_ to complain about the ring."

They began collecting bolts of fabric and measuring tools.

"How idiotic! She is risking quite a lot!" The taller cried "If I had a man that temperamental I would never talk back!"

"Let's be honest Marie," said the former slyly, "you would sass Napoleon Bonaparte."

The two cackled loudly.

Erik's eye twitched with annoyance. The one called Marie began walking towards the roll of velvet, still talking, much too quickly for Erik's comfort. He had seconds before she would see him, scream "The Phantom!" at the top of her lungs, and generally cause more ruckus than Erik needed on a Friday morning. In a split second decision, Erik took a deep breath and threw his voice to the corridor outside the workshop. In an eerily good impression of an irate Spanish diva, he speedily cried;

"Where is my dress? It has been two days! I want my costume for Act lll!"

The two jumped, and Erik lowered his voice to an annoyed hiss,

"Somebody better have it done by noon, or I will personally throw every seamstress in the opera house to Joseph Bouquet!" (It was common knowledge that the stagehand was a lust-driven drunkard).

"Damn Carlotta!" Marie growled, and the two marched out the door.

Erik quickly grabbed the roll of velvet and a few other things and slipped back into his passage. Walking quickly through the small space, he resisted the urge to visit his angel and passed three other unoccupied rooms, and did not pause to investigate, until he heard two unfamiliar voices coming from the manager's office. . .

o0o0o0o

It was seven minutes till ten when Erik returned to the fifth cellar below the opera. After depositing the roll of heavy cloth upon a vacant bench he removed his heavy cape and hat. Humming a swift tune, Erik strode towards the fireplace and discovered that the cushions were dry. He set them to the side and took up the velvet. Working studiously, he cut the heavy cloth to the gondola's shape and applied upholstery glue to the edges. Pacing out his front door and quickly placing the fabric on the gondola, he put tacks around the ends and brushed the dust off of the velvet, gazing at it critically in the dim light. Satisfied with his handiwork, Erik stood.

Striding through the door of his sitting room and over to his writing desk, Erik dipped a fresh quill in a bottle of crimson ink. Shuffling through countless sheets of parchment, most hastily scrawled over with scores, full of slashes and re-orchestrations in varying degrees of unfortunate handwriting, Erik finally found a fresh page. Thoughts of the new managers and patron raced through his head. He took a breath and allowed the forceful entity of the Opera Ghost to consume him. He touched the nib of the quill to the dried calfskin and began to write.

_"To the new managers of the Palais Garnier,"_

_ "Welcome messieurs, to my opera house. Before I inform you of my requests, I must, for both your own peace of mind and my leisure, make you aware of whom you deal with. In the realm of the Garnier, I am omnipotent. Not a single word can be whispered without my knowing. I am aware of all who enter the foyer. I see all who ascend the grand staircase. My name is the Opera Ghost, messieurs, and in this playhouse, I am God. I am above the catwalks. I am between the walls. I am all around you, in the very air that you breathe, and within the caverns of your mind. Do not toy with me. Follow my instructions, listen keenly to my suggestions, and we may coexist in harmony. Fail to do so, and I will become less than unpleasant with you. I will make no distinction from those who do not listen to me, and those who do not give me due respect. You have been aptly warned."_

_"During every performance that I desire, Box Five will be set aside for my personal use. It is never to be sold unless I give my explicit permission. Madame Giry, the ballet instructor, has been the keeper of my box for the past fifteen years. She will remain so for the foreseeable future. My reviews of various performances will be transferred in the form of a letter, left on the armchair in Box Five, which will be given to you by Mme Giry. Any other letters or notes I might bequeath to you will be left upon the desk in the manager's office, or given in any other way I deem fit. In addition, my salary of 20,000 francs per month (1/12 of my annual 1,040,000 francs per year) will be placed in an envelope and given to Mme Giry who will in turn leave it in Box Five. My 20,000 francs for the current month has yet to be paid, however, with a new patron, I will be expecting swift reimbursement. By your leave, gentlemen."_

_"Your obedient servant,"_

_"O. G."_

Erik carefully folded the parchment and began heating a bar of wax over a candle. The red liquid pooled atop the stationery and began to harden. Erik retrieved a seal from a drawer in his writing desk and slowly pressed it into the wax. A depression in the shape of the Paris Opera House came into view when he pulled the seal away, flanked by the letters "P.G.".

Erik shoved the note into his pocket, careful not to crumple it. He walked through the same tunnel he had previously, this time with his violin, and took a slightly different path. His heart began to ache with every step he took. He felt awful for the lies he was about to tell. The route was longer with the gondola out of commission, but Erik was too distracted to notice.

He finally arrived at his destination; Christine's mirror. She was in her slave costume for _Hannibal_, putting her hair back at the desk. Erik gave a forlorn smile, thinking of how natural she looked in a diva's dressing room. Alas, it was not permanent ("Not yet." thought Erik). The _corps de ballet_ dormitories B and C were being repaired, the first being repainted, and the second redone after a small fire caused by a candle placed too close to a curtain. Christine and Meg Giry were rooming together in this dressing room, as the rest of the _corps_ was dispersed throughout the building.

It was excellent for practicing, but had one very major drawback: Carlotta Giudicelli's dressing room was to the direct right of this one, and every foul note the woman sang carried through the walls. Mercifully, she had already practiced, and was likely strutting around the stage like an overblown, gaudy, beaded peacock.

I took my violin to my chin and whispered "Chriiiiisssstinnne". A smile spread across her face and she eagerly looked around, trying to find the source of the sound.

"Angel!"

"I am here, my child. Stand please, and work on your breathing this time."

She stood, and I was once more astounded by how tall she was. She was no longer the meek, frightened girl she was when I first came to her. She was nineteen, with the voice composed of literal heaven.

"Up the G scale, if you please." I struck a long note on my violin and she took off, voice soaring with amazing clarity and precision. Our warm-up lasted fifteen minutes, and by the end she was still beaming. I gazed at the clock upon the lush walls, and gave her a quick warning as to the time.

"You should hurry Christine, before that Giry woman has your head. "

She looked at the clock and gasped. She whispered stressed goodbye and dashed for the door. Strangely, she stopped just before the threshold and turned. She appeared to be struggling with herself.

"Christine?" I prompted

"When will you show yourself to me, Angel?" she queried nervously

"Soon, little one. Soon." I lied smoothly

She smiled brightly once more, and rushed out the door, likely for a reprimanding from Mme. Giry.

With a heavy heart, Erik continued standing behind the mirror for several more moments. Fingering the note in his pocket, he wondered how it had come to this. His day was getting worse, and it wasn't even noon.

Suddenly, his head snapped up. He would make this room Christine's. He would get her on that stage today. The Angel of Music had work to do. Pulling himself from his own self-pity and doubt, he placed the violin case on the floor behind the mirror and pushed all thoughts of the gondola and _Don Juan_ out of his mind. Erik slithered through the passage ways until he found a steep spiral staircase. When he reached the top, he pushed open a panel in the wall and found himself high above the stage of the Garnier, surrounded by scenery, back drops, and sand bags. He was in the catwalks.

**A/n; I am sorry it was so long, but I had to lay some things down. Hope you enjoyed it! I do not know when I will update again, but until then, au revoir.**


	2. Under the Stage Lights

Porcelain

**A/n: Thanks to "Not A Ghost3" for being my first reviewer. Congrats to "Louise-Anne" for another mind-blowingly awesome chapter of ****_The Angel's Shadow_****. The same for GuitarGirl97 and her story ****_Someone Worth Living For. _****I dedicate this chapter to them. Kudos to anyone who recognizes the chapter name*grumble, grumble*. **

**Disclaimer: I regret to inform you that I own no variation of PotO except what is in this story. Any and all dialogue/lyrics taken from the book or musical is the property of the Really Useful Group and Gaston Leroux. On with the show!**

Chapter 2; Under the Stage Lights

"These trrrooophiiiies…"

Every visible stagehand fifteen feet below Erik cringed as the red-haired diva upon the stage tried (and failed) for a high E, but none so much as the Erik himself. Carlotta's voice was like a stale pastry; outdated and unappealing. Erik gave a shudder and began navigating the top level of the flies as she continued singing. He could see just enough of the diva to know that the managers had not arrived; she had not yet began flaunting her sizeable bosom or batting her eyes like a musical streetwalker.

The stage hands rushed about, preparing the back drops to part in order for an enormous plaster elephant and its singing entourage to make its way to center. The chief of the flies, Joseph Bouquet, was not among them. "Probably drowning in his own vomit by now." Erik mused silently (with just a trace of hope). Nonetheless, the stage crew kept on with its business, apparently unaware of their commander's absenteeism.

Keeping your balance on the catwalks is rather easy. It is _difficult_ not to make noise as you do so. However, Erik had been doing this for so many years that it was second nature, and with the caterwauling coming from below, he was invisible. He floated like a wraith through the ropes and joins, passing marked only by the occasional breath of air. As he went along, Erik's mind raced with the plans of the Opera Ghost. He had dealt with the switching of managers once before, and the first step coincided directly with his idea to bring Christine to the spotlight; the note.

o0o0o0o

Box Five had four entrances, one of which connected directly with the catwalks. Erik slipped through this ( a foot-wide section of hollow partition wall) and set the letter on the left arm of the throne-like armchair, leaving the francs he had meant for the silver velvet on top of it. Madame Giry would be in soon to sweep the box, as she did every morning. Hopefully she would find the note, deliver it to the new managers, and not ask him too many questions.

Under normal circumstances, Erik might have waited to talk with Madame Giry; discussing Christine and the change in leadership. However, he needed to be in position, so as to …'welcome' the managers to the opera house. With a dastardly smile, Erik glided through his hidden passage once more.

o0o0o0o

Christophe Lefevre was a tall, thin man of about forty-five, with a brownish handlebar moustache and an odd fondness of top hats. His counterpart, Eugène Poligny was a slightly older man of fifty-two, extraordinarily plump, and with a bald patch atop his dark hair and gentle, bespectacled visage. Erik had been gazing fondly at Christine, who was whirling about with the _corps_, when the two men filed onto the stage, followed by a pair of strangers.

As Henri Reyer conducted the orchestra through its final chords, the garishly clad chorus faltered as it suddenly became aware of the small group traipsing through the aisles of ballerinas that lined the wings. Erik leaned forward in his perch in the catwalks, intrigued. As Lefevre apologized to Reyer and the actors, a bony woman in a black dress slipped unnoticed onto the stage, clutching a cane in one hand and a familiar piece of stationery in the other.

As expected, Carlotta sauntered to the front of the stage, waiting with an unfortunate grin plastered to her face as Poligny began explaining.

"For some weeks, as, I am sure, you all know, rumors pertaining to our imminent retirement have been circulating amongst the employees of the Opera Garnier. Christophe and I are now able to confirm these rumors."

A murmur swept throughout the stage, not unnoticed by Lefevre who cut in sharply.

"These two gentlemen behind us are the new managers of the Garnier. This is monsieur Richard Firmin…"

He gestured to a short man with a small moustache and a stern expression.

"And monsieur Gilles André."

He inclined his head towards a wiry man with a head of dark curls and a vacant smile.

"Messieurs, this is Signor Ubaldo Piangi, our resident Primo Umo."

A portly man with a bald patch to rival Poligny and Firmin's stepped out of the crowd, dressed as Hannibal, the lead for the opera that would premiere tonight. He bowed to the two men and tripped over his overly long toga wrap as he stepped back into the chorus. Even up in the flies, Erik could hear Firmin mutter "Your Grace." Erik smiled as Piangi turned a violent shade of red under his stage makeup.

Ubaldo Piangi was a nice man with a decent singing voice, and nowhere _near_ as full of himself as his wife, Carlotta. But still, every now and again, it didn't hurt to knock his ego down a smidge.

"Gentlemen," Poligny said, walking to where Carlotta was standing haughtily, "May I present Signora Carlotta Giudicelli, our leading soprano for nineteen seasons."

She curtseyed awkwardly.

"Charmed." Said Firmin, clearly not.

High above, in the catwalks, Erik could not resist a quiet snort of laughter. He could get used to this man.

"Signora," said André, hastily pushing past his sarcastic partner, "I have experienced all of your greatest triumphs! I believe there is a rather marvelous aria for Elissa in Act III of Chaleaumeau's _Hannibal_. I wonder if, as a personal favor, you would oblige us with a private rendition? That is unless monsieur Reyer objects."

Erik stood, dusted off his trousers, and maneuvered his way to where the backdrop of Carthage hung.

"Would two bars be sufficient introduction?" asked Reyer

"Two bars will be _quite _sufficient." muttered Firmin darkly as Carlotta nodded her assent to Reyer.

Once again Erik smiled. Apparently the man was no stranger to Carlotta's singing voice.

"You know messieurs," said the diva as Reyer readied his sheet music, "The aria is much more divine when one _looks_ the part. Unfortunately…"

She shot a glare at the two women huddled in the front row, hand stitching a sparkling white dress.

"My costume has yet to be finished."

The women shot a glare right back.

The piano in the orchestra pit began playing. Everyone retreated from Carlotta as, fifty feet above her head; an Opera Ghost ran his thumb over the rope he had just untied from its pulley.

The diva opened her mouth and began to sing. Erik did not listen; he already knew the piece by heart from practicing with Christine. Instead, he was concentrating on working the other knot from its berth, canvas and frame creaking and swaying ominously. The backdrop was held on by three pulleys, one of which he had already untied. If two were released, the back drop would plummet to the stage. The piano swelled just as the second knot came free. "Carthage" fell, and all hell broke loose.

The ballet rats scattered and squealed as the backdrop came crashing to the stage, followed by a sandbag and a good deal of dust. The managers (all four of them) leapt back and the chorus fled to the wings. The backdrop itself landed with a crack on top of the plaster elephant, snapping its truck off. The sandbag landed mere inches from Carlotta, who was pushed to the ground by the rope that followed. She let out a scream that Erik was sure shook the mighty chandelier, and little Meg Giry yelled "It's the Phantom!"

A dark chuckle filled the auditorium as said Phantom agreed with her.

Lefevre shouted up to the flies "For God's sake, Bouquet, what's going on up there?" Seeing André's confused expression he said "Joseph Bouquet, chief of the flies; he's responsible for this."

"He's there, the Phantom of the Opera…" Little Giry muttered nervously, rushing to where Christine stood, who had gone slightly pale.

To Erik's delight, said chief rushed, face flushed and bleary-eyed, onto the stage. Seemingly unaware that he was being watched by every eye in the opera house, he jogged to the middle of the stage and stooped to pick up the sandbag. He cradled in in his arms and began to walk off the stage. Apparently however, Lefevre had other plans.

"BOUQUET?!" he snarled angrily

The drunk jumped nearly a foot in the air and dropped the sandbag hard onto the toe of Ubaldo Piangi, who yelped like a trodden on dog and clutched his foot, tripping once more on his toga. The highest level of the catwalk trembled ever so slightly as Erik stuffed a fist in his mouth and collapsed in a fit of mad (albeit silent) giggles.

"Don't look at me monsieur; God as my judge, I wasn't at my station." Bouquet said tenderly, as if sporting a massive headache. "There's no one there. If there is, it must be a ghost."

"Clean this up. _Now!_" barked Poligny

"Yes sirs."

As Bouquet collected the sandbag and shuffled off the stage, André turned to a hysterical Carlotta.

"Signora… these things do happen." he offered timidly

"These things do happen? You have been here five minutes!" She roared, "These things happen to me all the time! Have you _done_ ANYTHING about it?! NO! And you three,"

She gestured at the other managers, all of whom appeared to be very interested in the scuff marks on the stage floor.

"You're as bad as him! So, until you stop these things from happening, this thing,"

She motioned to her throat, angry tears collecting at the corners of her eyes.

"Does _not_ happen."

She threw down her scarf and took Piangi's arm. Together they trudged/limped off the stage together. Above, in the flies, Erik, having regained composure, thrust a fist into the air in triumph.

"She will be back." said André a few moments later, met with an angry look from Firmin

"You think so monsieur?" queried Madame Giry, stepping toward the managers with an air of poise that reflected upon her long years as a dancer.

"Yes." said André slightly less sure of himself.

"What is it that you need, Madame?" inquired Poligny kindly

"I have a message sir, from the Opera Ghost." She stated

André and Firmin snickered as Lefevre and Poligny exchanged uneasy looks.

"Opera Ghost indeed! Come along, out with it then." Said Firmin condescendingly

Erik was rather impressed with the woman; if the Firmin had spoken so disrespectfully to _him_, he would have gotten a swift backhand. However, if Madame Giry was offended, she didn't show it. Instead, she gave a knowing smirk and continued talking.

"He merely welcomes you to his opera house, commands that you leave Box Five empty for his personal use, and reminds you that his salary is due."

"Putting it rather _lightly_, aren't we Antoinette?" whispered Erik, remembering the threatening words he had written.

Wisely, Lefevre and Poligny chose that moment to depart.

"Well, we had best be off. Goodbye everyone, we will miss you dearly." said Lefevre a bit too cheerily

"Break a leg!" Added Poligny

The cast gave a halfhearted and confused wave from where they had congregated around Madame Giry.

"The keys and our instructions are on our- well, that is-_your_ desks in the office. We signed all of the necessary papers this morning, if you recall. If you need me, I shall be in Frankfort." Said Lefevre, walking down the steps and into the auditorium."

"But-" André began

"And I in Wales. Though I might drop by occasionally with my wife." Poligny winked and followed Lefevre through the auditorium.

"Salary?!" Shouted André

"20,000 francs per month." The two chorused simultaneously, and disappeared through one of the rear doors.

"Salary." André stated flatly to Madame Giry

"Yes. It should not be difficult to muster with the Vicomte de Changy as your new patron." she responded calmly

Christine brightened at this, though Erik was not entirely sure why. His internal musings were cut short by the sound of Bouquet and a few members of his team climbing up the rope ladders to his level. Erik slithered up into the ropes, far above their heads, and continued to listen.

"You know my dear, we had hoped to announce that ourselves, as the Vicomte is to join us for the gala." Said Firmin

"_Was_ to join us, you mean. We have just lost two prominent cast members." Said André sadly.

"Not to worry, dear fellow." Said Firmin, "Monsieur Reyer, who is the understudy for Ubaldo Piangi?"

"Auguste Marceaux,"said the frazzled conductor, wiping his brow and pointing to a tall man in the group around them, "But you are out of luck with Carlotta."

"What do you mean?" said Firmin, frowning

"Not one girl in the chorus has her range and _certainly_ none of her experience." Reyer explained patiently.

"Damn!" Cried André, "What do we do now?"

"We'll have to refund the tickets, I suppose." Said Firmin glumly

"Is there no one here who can sing it?" André asked, looking around

Erik was preparing to throw his voice to Box Five and give them his suggestion, but Meg Giry beat him to it.

"Christine Daaé could sing it, monsieur!" the dancer said, leaping to her feet

"Yes!" thought Erik

"A ballerina? Don't be silly." Dismissed Firmin

"It is the only volunteer we have, Richard! Daaé? Hmmm, that's a rather curious name." André said,

He turned to where a very frightened Christine was being pulled to feet by Meg, shaking her head and blushing furiously.

"Sounds vaguely Swedish."

She nodded, looking nowhere but down.

"Let her sing for you messieurs. She has been well taught." Said Madame Giry

"Erik should think so!" whispered Erik happily

"Two bars, mademoiselle?" Reyer called from the pit, where he had retreated for peace of mind.

Once again she nodded.

Reyer straightened his sheet music. Bouquet and his friends had left, and Erik swept nimbly back down the ropes, eager for a better look at his pupil. Every eye in the opera was riveted upon Christine. She looked faintly sick as the piano began its introduction, and for a passing second, Erik was unsure if she would be able to sing. But, as her cue came, she took a breath, readied her posture, and opened her mouth.

What came out was barely more than _mezzo forte_, but it was with such clarity and beauty that even Erik's eyes widened. The words she sang would change her life and Erik's fate forever more. The simple seven word phrase was the downfall of the opera house, its employees, and most of all; its ghost. It was the beginning of the end.

"Think of me, think of me fondly…"


End file.
